I had just started to pull away when there was a voice from the doorway.
“Guillaume, putain de merde! You’re such an asshole!” I jerked my eyes open, pulled away from Guillaume, and whirled around, horrified.
Gabe was standing there in the doorway, fists clenched, staring at us. I felt absolutely horrible—and all of a sudden terribly sober. He wasn’t looking at me; he was staring at Guillaume with eyes that flashed with anger. Slowly, I turned back to Guillaume and was surprised to see him smirking again, looking rather pleased with himself.
“Oh, Gabe, I wasn’t expecting you,” he said casually, as if Gabe had just walked in on us playing bridge or sipping tea or something equally mundane.
I looked slowly back at Gabe. He looked even more furious. He glanced at me, then back at Guillaume. “That’s bullshit, Guillaume,” he said sharply. “You called my room thirty minutes ago and asked me to come up! You even had a room key delivered!”
“What?” I asked, startled. I whirled back to look at Guillaume, whose expression was vaguely guilty but still mostly self-satisfied. Then I turned back to Gabe, who was staring at me. He seemed about to say something, but then he shook his head and shut his mouth. His face looked sad, which made me feel terrible.
“Gabe?” I started to say. But he cast one last look at me, shook his head, turned on his heel, and strode quickly back down the hallway.
“Gabe!” I tried again, standing up and staring after him. But the only reply I got was the violent slamming of the door to Guillaume’s suite. I stared down the dark hallway for a moment, feeling totally crushed.
Slowly, I turned back to Guillaume. The smirk had finally vanished from his face, replaced with an expression that I could have sworn looked a bit guilty.
“What is wrong with you?” I hissed at him. He shrugged.
“It’s nothing, Emma,” he said, waving a dismissive hand, as if I was being high-maintenance, in some way, for reacting to what he’d done. “Don’t worry about it so much.”
I could feel my head throbbing with anger—or was it alcohol? “You are such a jerk!” I exclaimed. I slammed my glass of champagne down on the coffee table. I heard the glass crack, but I didn’t care. With one last furious look back at Guillaume, I jumped up and dashed toward the door. I pulled open the door and looked frantically out into the hallway. But Gabe was already long gone.
Back in my room, still slightly drunk and completely ashamed, I immediately dialed the front desk and asked to be connected to Gabe’s room. There was no answer. I tried three more times until the hotel operator suggested, in a tone filled with barely concealed annoyance, that perhaps the gentleman I was trying to reach had gone out. I hung up, feeling stupid, and wondered where he could have gone.
Checking to make sure I still had my key, I raced out of the room and took the elevator down to the lobby, willing it to go faster. I emerged on the ground floor just in time to see Gabe striding rapidly out of the hotel, pulling his suitcase behind him.
“Gabe!” I called desperately, pushing past the crowd of people waiting to climb aboard the elevator. “Gabe, wait!”
But he didn’t slow down. Nor did he look back. I dashed after him, pulling up beside him just as he reached the front doors.
“Gabe, where are you going?” I asked, my voice laced with a desperation that made me feel ashamed.
“To the train station,” he muttered without looking at me.
A valet appeared from outside to help Gabe with his bag. “Where to this evening, sir?” he asked, bowing slightly.
“The Eurostar terminal,” Gabe said tersely. “As soon as possible.”
“I will get you a taxi right away, sir,” the man responded. He hurried officiously away.
“Gabe, I am so sorry,” I said quickly, my words pouring out on top of each other in my desperation. “Please look at me. Please! Gabe!”
Finally, with obvious reluctance, he looked down at me, his face stony.
“Gabe, I’m so sorry!” I said again. “It’s not what you think!”
“Hey, it’s not my business if you want to make out with your client,” he said coldly. “After all, what woman can resist a rock star?”
“Gabe, please, it didn’t mean anything,” I babbled. “I swear!”
He shook his head as a cab pulled up and the valet approached us with a raised hand. “It never does,” Gabe muttered.
“What does that mean?” I asked. But he ignored me.
The valet began dragging Gabe’s bag away, and he turned away from me to follow.
“Wait!” I exclaimed, desperately searching for any reason to make him stay. “You can’t go! We’re hosting a media breakfast in the morning! Guillaume’s going to perform again!”
He laughed bitterly. “I think I know everything I need to know about Guillaume Riche.” He got into the cab and slammed the door behind him. The valet was staring at us, but I didn’t care.
“Gabe—” I pleaded.
“Emma,” he said. “You’re the only reason I came to this junket.”